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So, I done gone and dislocated my right shoulder. I spent a few hours in a Chicago ER crying and writhing in pain–totally being ignored by ‘the best health care in the world.’ Not good. After a fentanyl drip, two batches of x-rays and being “out” when the docs jammed my shoulder back where it belongs, I finally went home. You’d think that would be it, but NO. It wasn’t until after I got home some 6 hours after I was wheeled into the busy ER, that I realized my left arm was seriously injured (have a bruise that looks like an eggplant), and I had contracted a nasty case of frost bite….yes, FROST BITE.. on my left hand.

Frost bite? Where am I? Mt. Everest?

Over the next few days, the shoulder pain turned into to a dull ache, and the pain of the frost bite and bruised arm came roaring in. Sure, I had good drugs, but I can’t handle the strong stuff. Hey, I have a hard enough time maintaining control of all four limbs without big pharma..why would I want to dull my senses and possibly bust my noggin?

While it is better, I am treating myself to an MRI on Friday, so when I meet with my bone doc next week, I’ll know if surgery is the answer or a bionic arm.

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1) I mean, really..why NOT make a 5 1/2 hour film about self-loathing and sexual addiction? Wait, it’s been cut down to 4 hours because it, um, isn’t quite marketable. Odd for a director to give up final cut of any film. Really. It is.

Now, I’m not a Von Trier fan at all, and yes, I’ve seen all of his films because for a while there, I was considering cutting off my lady bits with garden shears. I needed to watch a ‘how to’ vid.

What’s really special about this week is the trailer for “Nymphomanic” was released. And, well..just have a look-see.

It’s pretty simple really. A kid, usually a teenage boy, runs up on some random stranger on the street and knocks ‘em out cold with a punch to the head. That’s all. No robbery, no other type of assault–just a punch–and boom, the victim hits the ground with a thud.

Glad to see that society continues to slide down crap mountain.

3) I get it, you can’t afford to go skiing this year. Sorry about that. But, YOU can fool your friends into thinking you snow-plowed on the bunny hill by doing this….

(via the Daily Mail)

Are they taking the piste? Wearing goggles in tanning booth for ‘fake ski tan’ effect is bizarre new beauty trend

‘Tis true. We’re close to bottoming out as a society, folks. When someone is willing to be a melanoma poster child as an attempt to impress people who probably don’t give a shit about them, it’s time to re-evaluate your life. At this point, you’re just a shell of a person.

“In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids,” he told the site. “Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely. Those companies that are in trouble are trying to target everybody: young, old, fat, skinny. But then you become totally vanilla. You don’t alienate anybody, but you don’t excite anybody, either,” he said.”

People on the Internets and on the tee vee are awfully hot about this and I’m not quite sure why. Yes, he’s a douchebag, that’s easy to see.

But the rest–meh. So? Who cares? So, he wants “hot” people to wear his clothing, and he offended chunky folks in the same statement.

Yeaaaah…I’m still on “So? Who cares?”

Look folks, there are plenty of other clothing options out there to choose from.

Tons.

I don’t see what the big deal is about wearing a brand that NO ONE over the age of 28 should wear. Seriously–if you’re still wearing A&F clothing over that age it proves you’re trying waaaaay too hard, paying waaaaay too much for poorly made rags and you’re clearly lacking in the imagination department.

Also, it’s his company, he can do with it what he wishes. If he wants to alienate a large (and steadily growing) segment of the population, then, that’s all on him. More power to him.

What’s really sad is that folks are offended by the words of businessman who appears to have the emotional intellect of a pre-moisty, pimply high schooler who probably drives a rape van, and who won’t answer the phone unless he’s wearing makeup.

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I got nothing out of it except that I got to celebrate the 18th anniversary of my 29th birthday with some friends/family (got an iPad out of it–SCORE), learned that I’m a reporter/writer/editor and NOT a research editor. and was provided with even more evidence that I need to live in warmer climes and take bets on hermit crab races.

While I was reeling after the latest shit sandwich of a temp job that ended up with me ‘not being a good fit’ (whatever the fuck that means), a few awesome stories almost got past my radar.

The first is my fave. I don’t know how else to describe this particular yarn except, well, to wonder why I am not a drug addict after reading such a tale.

Apparently, some loyal constituent in the world’s largest democracy, decided it would be neato to pay homage to his fab fave politico by sculpting a bust of said pol. Nice and not that unheard of in this day and age. However, busts of this sort are normally sculpted out fo marble, or stone or clay. Maybe even shit if certain materials are not abundant.

But, this particular bust was made out of … wait for it … BLOOD. (Thank god my gag reflex has calmed considerably after my years of being bulimic because my computer would be covered in puke right now)

Read on…

“An Indian man known only as Hussaini has recently unveiled a shocking work of art – a bust of J. Jayalalitha, Chief Minister of the Tamil Nadu state, made from 11 litres of frozen human blood, donated by him and 32 of his students.

Apparently, nothing shows admiration for a person like making a creepy sculpture of them from human blood. At least that’s what Hussaini, a sculptor and archery teacher from Chennai, must have thought when he got the idea to create a bust of Chief Minister J. Jayalalitha out of his own frozen blood, for her 65th birthday. The noted artist wanted to thank the politician for being the “most sports loving CM of India” and for her support to his archery association, and since he had a few liters of his own blood stored for special occasions, he decided to put it to good use. You see, Hussaini has had his blood drawn at three-month intervals, over the last eight years, waiting for an opportunity to use it as a medium for his sculpture. But he only had 6.5 liters of blood, and this special project required 11. Luckily, his 32 archery students were more than willing to donate the extra 4.5 liters needed to complete the project.”

Oh no, not just Hussaini’s blood is in this masterpiece, but the blood of his archery students too. There are so many jokes there that my mind can’t handle the overflow, and my stomach is starting to churn, so the need to down Maalox by the gallon starts NOW.

I know you’re all probably wondering how the entire fuck he did this, so grab a pen and paper and write it down. Or, to really get in the mood, you may want to write in your own blood.

“To create his blood sculpture, the artist first created a made one from clay. He then prepared a silicone mold, encased it in a hard outer shell and filled it with the 11 liters of blood. The mold was finally frozen at -27 degrees Celsius, for two months. On the day of the unveiling, Hussaini revealed the other big idea behind his plasma artwork – blood donation. “If I can organize 11 liters of blood, then every other citizen can follow suit and save many lives,” he said.”

I hope Hussaini realizes that donating blood to make art is not the same as donating blood to, you know, save lives.

(Courtesy of New India Express)

I hope the recipient has proper storage for this since India is not exactly known for its mild climate and low humidities. Ahem. Craaaap–can’t get that image out of my noggin. Fuuuuck.

On a somewhat happy note, the Chief Minister was none too pleased with this tribute and advised Hussaini to never do this again.

And, finally … nothing quite says art like a big, stank-ass ashtray with a smoldering cig in it that’s really a chapeau:

(courtesy of puppiesandflowers.com)

Once upon a time, actually it’s more like once upon many a-time, I puked up stuff resembling these threads. That was a time when I was knee-deep in a nasty-as-fuck eating disorder where refunding food was a common occurrence. So, it’s only natural that when I gaze upon such stuff, it’s like a bulimic ‘Nam PTSD flashback minus the “DIDI MAO!!”, rats eating through my tumtum to get out of the bamboo/water trap and Charlie. Thank dog that I no longer do such a thing. Instead, I prefer to showcase my self-loathing via this blog, and by committing petty crimes like flipping off truckers on the interstate and flashin’ mah boobs at the religious nutlies who dare to ring my bell.

All was well and good.Then came you.

Fortunately, this didn’t cause me to stick my fingers down my throat, but it did give me one helluva chuckle. After watching it a few times, it reminded me of something. Long lead-in, but it’s worth the wait.

There. That’s much better.

What’s next?

Oh yeah. While I was shopping for various sundries and my weekly supply of box wine, I had a wee run-in with one of the neighborhood’s more colorful characters. I’ve seen this woman around from time to time–yelling at trees and fire hydrants–whatever object is harshing her mellow that day. She’s harmless–as far as I can tell–and she’s never said one word to me.

Until today.

After my reign of terror in Jewel, I was pushing my goods in a cart out to my car. I was in my own little McCrabass universe so I didn’t notice her quickly sidling up to me. By the time I spied her, it was too late. I turned just in time to catch some spit with my cheek and a dirty hand moving quickly to my head.

“WITCH! WITCH!”

I know, I was surprised too, but not really. I’ve been called worse and consider being called a “witch” a huge compliment, a badge of honor if you will. Unlike Christine O’Donnell, it would be easy for me to capitalize on this moniker.

Ruh-roh, I forgot to mention an important detail here. I had a layer of my chocolate-thunder brown hair dyed dark purple/blue. Also, the ends in the back look like they’ve been ‘dipped’ in the same color. It’s subtle, and looks good. Not outlandish at all, and considering what I’ve seen lurking on the streets of Chicago, my hair color is fucking Ann Romney-esque in comparison.

I noticed then she looked an awful lot like Miles Davis and it gave me pause, but not for long. There was no time to ponder this similarity since her other hand was careening quickly toward my hair. This time, I slapped her hand away, put my hand up, palm facing her and raised my voice.

“You try this again and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I suggest you walk away before you get hurt.”

My heart was pounding by this point because this woman was big — bigger than me. I was scared shitless but my eyes never left hers. She finally backed down and started to wander off. I watched as she stomped off and was about to get into my car when it appeared she was at a safe distance, when she spun on her heels and screeched:

“I CURSE YOU AND YOUR PURPLE HAIR YOU FUCKING BITCH!!”

With that, I blew her a kiss, got in my car and drove home.

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For the most part, I believe that plastic surgery and all sub-categories of it are a good thing. It helps people with jack shit for self-esteem feel better about themselves by correcting hook noses, weak chin issues, sagging earlobes and boobage, and facial lines as deep as the Grand Canyon. Of course, plastica is used for good, like when someone was maimed or scarred in some horrible manner. But this is not the case here.

Sometimes I wonder which image I would prefer staring at: A plate of rotting meat mixed with maggots, feathers, rotting eggs, or someone sitting across from me with a sutured visage complete with pus and yuck oozing out of it.

Hmm .. I’ll take the meat please

Of course, plastic surgery is rife with those who abuse it.

(courtesy cdn.sheknows.com/)

(courtesy of thumpandwhip.com)

I could write a book called Dull Knife:Profiles in Bad Plastic Surgery, but nah. Not into it. Anyway, you get the idea.

Now, we’ve got a bunch of nimrods who are into shooting buckets of saline into their foreheads, then pressing a thumb in the middle of the bulbous splotch to add a little more drama. No, not to eliminate lines, but to look as if they have a bagel IN THEIR FOREHEAD. I mean, when I first saw this new look, all I could think of was Rocky Whathisname from “Mask.” Or Joseph/John Merrick.

Now, if I were to do this, I’d add a big eye to the ‘hole’ and cover up my real eyes, then act like a cyclops. It would give me something to do.

Someone please essplain to me why this is necessary because I’m at a loss.

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Last night, I dreamed that this was me in my new, seizure-inducing living room.

(courtesy of worldofwonder.net)

Hey, it’s a huge improvement over the dreams I usually have where this character makes an appearance in one form or another:

(courtesy of wikipedia)

I know. Ouch. Somedays I’m Saturn, other days I’m his son. Either is a bummer no matter what.

This week marks yet another unpropitious anniversary–20 months of unemployment. Or, to reiterate what I said to my friend Braulio recently, it’s been a fucking weird year.

Meh.

I could bitch and moan about it, but what’s the point? I’ve got some freelance work that’s keeping me one step ahead of the law so mankind is safe for the time being. Plus, it’s much more fun to provide witty, acerbic yet caustic commentary on what’s been happening in the world lately. As we all know, there’s a plethora o’ material.

In. His. Wet. Dreams. Herman Cain is the gift that keeps on giving–kinda like herpes and his GOP brethren. When he says stuff like: “Stupid people are ruining America, and we’ve got to take it back” you know it’s time for him to return to making shitty pizza and leave the tough stuff like maintaining control of all four limbs and making actual decisions about big important things — like how to solve this country’s problems — to those who have a titch more experience in such matters. Knowing which type of pizza sauce is tastier, makes you an expert in, well, nothing.

And we’re back to Russia, or in this case, the Ukraine. They’re all the same to me. Anyway, that part of the world births some of the oddest shit.

Anastasiya Shpagina is no exception. Apparently, living a real life isn’t enough so she’s now an anime person or character or whatever fanboys call them. I don’t really know what that is either. Maybe the videos below will provide some sort of explanation.

FYI: Dziga Vertov would be disgusted by the horrible camera angles.

Hope this helps tame your latent-girls-dressed-as-anime-characters-fantasy, pervs. If these examples didn’t take away the schwing you’re feeling in your nether regions, you can always get some broad to dress up like an anime character–money is always a good enticement. This vid will show you both how! Just keep the volume at a reasonable level because we all know how well sound travels up from your mom’s basement. You wouldn’t want to interrupt her canasta tourney.